On our way to the Peace Pagoda, I sat quietly
in the passenger seat listening
to my friend's children fighting in the back.
The petty taunting followed by a reactionary slap.
They are not my children so I keep my eyes out the window
and comment on the lack of snow.
We walked the woods path to the temple
the kids continuing their row, then the first glance
of Buddha in meditation pose; giant and white
eyes cast down on the ground.
I tried to reflect on the year I'd spent - the times I'd been kind,
been cruel, been indifferent.
Life is suffering, read the engraving on the wall.
Life is a river always moving. Do not hold on to things.
were Buddha's last words on his death bed.
I imagine myself being carried by white light like a river
weightless from all the things I've shed.
The kind of peace that comes from absence.
Before we leave, I step inside the temple and I pray
at the altar adorned with orange and gold offerings
for my eyes and my heart to open wide - and then wider
for a year where I am kinder
and braver and heavier
with the full weight of this suffering upon me.
Yes!
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